


Live Through This

by buttcat



Series: pay no mind [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Post-Apocalypse, a Dumb Sequel, sort of, that'll do, what do i even tag this as
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-03-13 09:22:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3376280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttcat/pseuds/buttcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas is MIA, and the world is still pretty screwed. The Winchesters, as always, are determined to be Big Damn heroes about it.</p>
<p>¡¡¡¡this story is currently on hiatus!!! probably until <strike> summer </strike> always, because i forgot where i was going with it and i don't like it v much anyway !!!! thank you for your patience c:!!!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It is, Dean discovers, very difficult to keep his hands off Sam.

He’s still getting over the newness of this fragile thing grown between them – Sam saying _yes,_ you can touch, _and I want to too_ , the knowledge still raw as a new bruise, and Dean wants to dig and dig his fingers into it so it won’t ever fade. When he sees Sam he holds him close and strokes his fingers through his long-ass hair because it’s just _them_ in this huge, empty house, no one to pretend in front of. Five whole days and they haven’t seen anyone, no demons, no Crowley, nobody at all save each other, and he’s beginning to believe that maybe, actually, the house had been intended as a gift. There were strings attached _somewhere,_ probably, but right now, it’s only them.

So when he sees Sam sitting studious and frustrated in the library, half-rotted book in hand, Dean can’t help but swing himself onto his lap.

“Off,” Sam says, holding the book out of the way. “M’trying to work, Dean. Go be irritating somewhere else.”

“Not irritating,” Dean complains, rolling his hips. “ _Seductive_.”

Sam doesn’t even look up over his book. What an _asshole._ “Really. That’s what this’s supposed to be, huh?”

Dean scoots in closer, crushing the book in between the two of them, and gets his lips right up next to Sam’s ear.“S’too bad, Sammy,” he says, “’cuz I was gonna let you fuck me.”

Underneath him Dean can feel Sam jerk, full-bodied and electric. “Seriously? You sure?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, a little dismayed at the surprise in Sam’s voice. He hasn’t offered to play catcher before, sure, but that was only because Sam seemed so damn eager to feel Dean inside him, get stuffed full and wide with everything he’s got to offer (which, Dean thinks, is a _considerable amount_ ).

But fuck, yeah, he wants Sam to return the favor, tease him open until he’s sobbing for more and then slide into him slow, hold him down and make him take it – .

“If you – I don’t want you to do this just ‘cuz you feel obligated,” Sam says, which is probably the least-sexy thing he’s ever heard.

“ _Dude._ Do you _really_ think I’d do that?” Dean complains.

“Uh, yes?”

Dean glowers at him. “If I don’t want something, you’ll know it, okay? I ain’t just doin’ this for your sake, got it?” 

He takes Sam’s hand in his, tugs it back and around until he’s got it cupped over his ass.

“Uh,” says Sam. “Uh, uh, um – ”

“G’won,” Dean says.

Sam shifts his hand to rest at the cleft of his ass and strokes down gentle, like he’s testing the water, figuring out just how much he can get away with, which, in Dean’s opinion, is pretty much near anything. He lifts his hips into the motion, tries to get more pressure through the fabric of his sweats, and Sam’s long fingers halt just above the edge of his hole. He whines and shoves up for more and Sam just lifts his hand right along with him, neither gaining nor losing any ground.

“You really _like_ this,” Sam says, taking in Dean’s flushed face, the growing bulge at the front of his sweats.

“Fucking, I _told you,”_ Dean says, fingers clenching and unclenching in the meat of Sam’s shoulders. “Wouldja _touch_ me, already.”

Sam hums and obliges, follows the tight ring of his rim with the tips of his fingers with a touch that’s barely a whisper, barely any pressure at all, but enough to make Dean shiver under his hands. The drag of the cotton is alien and unexpected but it’s nice, too, soft and stinging at the same time, still not enough, not _enough._

“More, Sam,” he says, and it comes out a little whiney, but Sam’s looking enraptured all the same, focused intensely on every start and twitch in Dean’s face, the preoccupied tilt of his brow.

“Yeah, Dean – up, lemme – yeah,” Sam says, nudging down the elastic waist of his sweats.

“Fuck’s sake,” Dean says, and kicks them off. Sam stares at his bobbing erection for a beat and Dean rolls his eyes, tugs his hand back where it belongs.

“Holy shit,” Sam says. “You’re – okay, fuck, I can – . I can feel your – ”

He begins to attempt and press the first joint of his index finger inside and Dean scoots away.

“Dude!” he says. “Lube. C’mon, thought I taught you better than that.”

“Sorry, man,” Sam says, and he’s got the grace to look contrite, at least, though he keeps his finger stubbornly stroking against Dean’s delicate skin. “Where’d you, uh. Where is it?”

“Um,” Dean says, moving against his brother’s hand. “Fuck, _ah_ –. Where’d we last – ”

“Kitchen? No, shit – dining room. Yeah.”

It’s way too far away. They tumble through the sitting room and into the room behind it, stumbling over each other in their haste, and Dean’d probably feel a little silly about dashing through the house naked if he wasn’t so goddamn horny.

“Where, where – ” Sam says when they bust into the room. There’s a huge long table down the middle, surrounded by a bevy of chairs and topped with a row of ugly three-pronged candelabras, empty of actual candles. There is not, at first glance, any lube, but he notices the hem of his jacket peeking out from under a chair, and remembers, _pocket._ He bends over to reach for it and behind him Sam lets out a sharp gust of air, like he’s been kicked in the gut. Dean can’t see him draw near but he feels his large, warm presence settle up right behind him, groin about level with his ass.

“Thanks for helping,” Dean says, reaching for the fabric. He’d like to get closer, but Sam’s got his goddamn gargantuan hands on his hips – and now they’re sliding around to his ass, gripping him tight on either side and tugging.

“Je _sus,”_ Sam breathes, pulling him apart. “ _Look_ at you. You’re so fuckin’ little, Dean. Shit.”

“Nothing – little – about me – _aha!_ Gotcha,” Dean says, straightening up with the jacket in his hands.

Sam wraps his arms around his waist and shifts closer, close enough that Dean can feel his erection pressing at the small of his back and along his ass. He begins to press heavy kisses against Dean’s neck, suck at the curve of his jawline, fingers traveling up to pluck at his brother’s pert, pink nipples. Dean, determined, roots around in his pockets, finds the little bottle with the tips of his fingers, and – .      

“We…” Dean says, with the air of an executioner. “We’re out.”

“ _What_?” Sam says, withdrawing from his neck. “Of _lube?_ Fuck.”

“Yeah. _Fuck.”_

Sam whines and shifts his hips. “Dean,” he says. “Isn’t there, like, _any?_ At all?”

“Not enough to get in my ass,” Dean says. “Sorry, man.”

“ _God,_ shit, I wanna fuck you,” Sam growls against his neck. “Wanna fuck you _so_ fucking bad, feel you – fucking, gonna ruin you, _Dean –_ ”

“C-can’t,” Dean says, a little terrified but also a _lot_ turned on, his brother huge and immovable behind him, his hips grinding away like he can’t even help himself, hard on poking insistent against his ass. “Lemmee – fuck, Sam, lemmee blow you instead, okay?”

Sam fucking _bites_ him, and _hard,_ not quite enough to break the skin but assuredly enough to bruise, the imprint of his brother’s teeth burnt onto the skin of his shoulder in purple and green.

He thinks this is a refusal – and if the jerkoff actually tries to fuck him dry, he’s gonna _break his fucking jaw –_ but then he’s being tugged around and kissed, hard.

“Won’t hurt you,” Sam says, and, okay, Dean could beg to differ, but whatever. “Promise, I – like this, just like this – .”

Sam’s fumbling with his pants – he’s wearing jeans, like they were planning on _going_ somewhere, like he had to dress up for someone even though it’s been just the two of them in this too-large house for five days now – and Dean has to slap his hands away and take care of the zipper himself, because Sam’s too worked up and flustered to do it fast enough.

He whimpers when he’s exposed to the open air. Jeans, but no underwear, Dean observes, and he shoots his brother an incredulous eyebrow even as he goes to stroke him root to tip, roll his heavy balls in his palm.

_“Dean,”_ Sam pants, oblivious, tossing his head forward. His hands stroke down from the small of Dean’s back to his ass, and then back up again, over and over, leaving a trail of molten heat that Dean shivers into happily.

And now Sam’s batting _his_ hands away, sinking down and down and Dean’s staring at the top of his head and confused and Sam’s placing shuddery little kisses on his stomach and _oh._

“Holy _shit_ ,” Dean says, his voice gone horse. “Holy shit, Sam, Sammy – ” 

“This good?” Sam says, looking up at him with bright, kind eyes, still in his shirt, jeans tugged halfway down his thighs. He’s on his knees, on his _knees_ for _Dean_ , and it’s halfway to incomprehensible already, _Sam_ on his _knees._ Dean cups his face in nervous hands, slides his palms against the rasp of stubble, the bony jaw.

“ _Yes,_ ” he rasps. “Please, Sam, fuck.”   

Sam lowers his eyelashes and, looking at him the whole time, drags his tongue down the cut of his hip, mouths at his inner thigh.

“ _Sam – ”_ Dean starts to say, and Sam sinks his canines into his thigh and sucks. Dean cries out and bends over him, hands clutching uselessly in his hair, underbelly crushing into his cheek. It hurts but it hurts _good,_ like a bee sting or a slap, and he doesn’t know if he’s trying to tug Sam away from him or closer in, offer more of himself up to mark.

Sam releases his teeth and licks over the concave red welts he’s left behind, warm and steady like Dean isn’t dying in front of him, threatening to rattle apart, to beg. He takes Dean in his hand and steadies him (fucking _finally,_ and it’s hardly much at all, that loose fingered calloused palm, but it’s _Sam’s_ hand, Sam’s long, damp fingers, and the jolt of relief and lust makes his hips jerk forward), maneuvers his face in close, nudges the head of his cock against his kiss-wet lips. He teases it against his bottom lip and then pulls away until they’re connected by just a thin, tremulous strand of pre-come, and it wavers and breaks and lands, shining, on his chin.

It’s sappy and stupid but God _damn_ Sam’s beautiful, sloppy-faced and tousled as he is, and Dean would do fucking near _anything_ for this kid, keep him breathing, and he knows this is fucking _it_ for him. He can’t ever go back, not after this, not when Sam’s peeking his tongue out tentative to swipe the pre-come off his chin, not when he’s looking up at him with all the trust and comfort in the world, all the devotion. And then Sam takes him into his mouth and he can’t fucking _think_ for all the soft warm wet around him, the pulse and slide of a busy tongue on his frenulum, around the head of his cock. He can’t force himself more than halfway down his shaft but it’s okay because he’s sucking at him firm and even, insistent clinging pressure from the pursed O of his lips, the plush pull of his mouth dipping and receding and dipping again.   

“ _Sam,”_ he chokes.

Sam hums around him and he can feel it all the way down in his ankles, sweet shivery vibration, and he gasps and tries not to tug his brother’s hair, tries to keep his hips still. Sam is bobbing faster now, his hand working everything he can’t quite fit in his mouth, and it’s _good,_ fuck, so good – his legs are gonna give out if he doesn’t, if he doesn’t –

“I’m gonna,” he gasps, folding over again, and it’s restricting Sam’s movement but it hardly matters anyway because God and all his angels couldn’t stop him from coming down his little brother’s throat, pulse after pulse until Sam’s gagging on it, until come’s leaking out from between his lips and down his chin, rivulets of the stuff dripping onto his shirt and wetting Dean’s twitching, oversensitive cock.

His knees do go weak, then, and he sinks down onto his ass on the cold, bare floor, splays his legs akimbo around his brother, who is coughing and sputtering into his sleeve.

“Fuck, sorry, man,” Dean says, leaning forward. He’s warm and fuzzy and sated all over and it’s hard to concentrate on much else other than the warm, glowing feeling he’s got lighting up his chest, but he still feels bad. Even though it’s a) kinda funny and b) kinda hot.    

“You’re a _jerk,”_ Sam says, wiping his mouth on his shirt.  

“Sorry, dude – hey, c’mere, lemme – yeah – ”

He shoves Sam back until he’s sitting back on his ass, legs spread, and settles chest-down between them, holding himself up with his forearms so that Sam’s dick is about eye level. He’s straining and dripping like crazy, slippery pre-come leaking down his shaft, and Dean spares no preamble whatsoever, just lunges up and swallows down as much as he can.

“ _Oh,_ ” Sam says, and starts forward, snares one large hand in Dean’s hair. He’s tugging a little but Dean doesn’t mind, doesn’t protest it, because he figures he owes him at least _this._ Plus he likes it, maybe, Sam manhandling him just a little, holding him close so he can fuck up into his mouth in short, sharp jerks, fabric of his open jeans dragging against Dean’s chin on every thrust. Sam is _big,_ mouth-splittingly big, and Dean’s jaw’s already going sore, lips puffy and stretched.  

Sam’s also very worked up, and it’s hardly any time at all before he’s pulling out and blowing hard all over Dean’s face, striping his lips and the bridge of his nose.

“Aw, dude, gross,” Dean complains, obligingly staying still until Sam’s all the way done and he falls back, cock softening outside his jeans.

“Deserved it,” he says.

Dean wipes his face off in Sam’s shirt, and he doesn’t even complain about it, which is probably a first.         

“Still wanna fuck you,” Sam says, and Dean snorts.

“’Course you do,” he says. “I’m irresistible.”

“Y’know what?”

“Nn? What?”

“How ‘bout we go down to that sex shop? The one next to the, uh. The thing. You know. So we can pick up supplies.”

“That’s real romantic of you, Sammy,” Dean says, fluttering his eyelashes. “I’m shocked. This an anniversary or something? You never take me out anymore.” 

“Aw, fuckoff,” Sam says. “You coulda just said _no.”_

“Why would I say _no?_ Hell yeah, let’s go loot a sex store. Have ourselves a post-apocalyptic Valentine’s day.” 

They drive, and it’s a balm on Dean’s soul. He sees why the house is necessary, sure – probably less so now that there aren’t leviathan dicking around everywhere, but whatever – but he doesn’t like being stationary. He isn't built for it anymore, not really.

They don’t encounter a single leviathan on the way there, or in the pit of a parking lot. It’s not really a surprise, since they’d watched the bastards fuck off back to Purgatory in living color, but it’s nice to have their success confirmed.

They pile out of the car nonchalant, Dean only kinda keeping his hand hovering over the handgun holstered at his thigh. He’s got the sword, too, just in case. You never know.  

“Hey!” he says, and stops Sam short. “None of that cherry shit this time, got it? We’re getting normal, no-frills lube.”

“Tastes weird,” Sam says.

“Yeah, well, suck it up, bitch. You wanna pick the lock, or should I?”

“Be my guest,” Sam says, and Dean shuffles forward, bends just enough at the waist to get at it.

It’s a little surreal to do this in broad daylight, right next to a major highway. Sam’s not even doing his usual nonchalant _don’t mind me, I’m just standing exactly here in order to shield my brother, nothing to see._

 It’s good there _isn’t_ anyone watching, because it takes him about twenty seconds too long to get the lock popped, and it’s not even a complicated one. He’s a little out of shape. Sam, bless his soul, doesn’t comment.

It’s very pink inside, lots of glittering plastic and fake gemstones, and it’s not quite to Dean’s taste but he’ll take what he can get at this point. The back wall is a sea of dildos and there are little display stands set up everywhere for the merchandise, blank-faced mannequins modeling lingerie and strap-ons and jiggly silicone breasts. There is a _whole lot_ of shit, none of it arranged in any particular order save the Great Wall of Dildos, and no signs to maybe hint at which direction they should be heading. 

“Uh,” Dean says. “You take that half? I’ll take this one?”

Sam shrugs. “Lemmee know when you find something,” he says, and wanders off. He’s head and shoulders over most of the shelves and, also, more-or-less eye level with a bunch of mannequin crotch, which is _fucking hilarious._  

Dean begins to peruse the aisles, alternately poking and giggling at the things he finds. He kinda regrets splitting up with Sam, because he’s sure he’s missing a whole smorgasbord of horrified, prudish, lemon-sucking expressions. Maybe he ought to call him back over.

He digs aimlessly through a basket of body paints (both edible and not), lets himself moon over a rack of cheap-looking lingerie for a hot second before he moves on. There are the inflatable sex dolls, of course, with their unappealing printed-on faces, but he’s actually taken by surprise by the store’s enormous selection of butt plugs with tails of varying lengths attached to them. He grabs a long one by the furry end, gives it a few swings in the air, and launches it directly into the back of Sam’s head like a bola.

“ _Fuck!”_ Dean hears Sam holler, and then a raucous clatter that can only be his gangly, uncoordinated moose limbs thrashing around and knocking shit onto the floor. “Mother _fucker! Dean!”_   

Dean cackles.

“The fuck _is_ this?” Sam says, holding it away from himself. “I mean, I know what it is, but – why’s it so _furry?”_

“Upholstered for her pleasure?” Dean suggests.

“Ew,” Sam says. “Ew. Please, just – do not.” 

Dean cackles again, and dodges neatly to the side when Sam lobs it back. It slams into the shelf behind him and knocks over a row of creepy, O-faced decapitated doll heads.

“Goal!” Dean says, and Sam pretends not to hear him.

There is still a whole goddamn lot of store to get through.

“Lube,” he mutters to himself. “Lube, lube – oh, hey. Heh. _Sam!”_

Sam ducks instinctively.

“Ain’t gonna throw anything at you, shit for brains. Just wanna show you what I found.”  

Sam peeks out over the top of the shelf. “What?”

“It’s a gag, see?” Dean says, waving it. It’s small, and strappy, and black. “Except for, like, a ball, there’s a dick!”

“Oh _,”_ Sam says, sounding way less freaked out than Dean’d been anticipating.

He’s tempted to fling the damn thing at Sam’s dumb head, but then he takes in the way his eyes are flicking toward the gag, and then Dean, and back again, and he’s going a little red –

“You _like_ that,” he says. 

Sam sputters. “No! Why would you think – ? No way!”

“You mean,” Dean says, and he lets his voice slip down into its bedroomiest, dirty-talkingist growl. “You don’t like the idea of me sucking on this while you fuck me? You don’t wanna hear me gag around it – ?”

“Oh my _God,”_ Sam says, skin from forehead to collarbones flushed a bright fuchsia.

“Well, okay,” Dean says, making as if to put it back on the shelf. “Not for everyone, I guess.”

“ _Wait – ”_ Sam says. “Don’t – I do, I do like it, I just – .”

“Awesome,” Dean says. “’Cuz so do I.”

“Oh,” Sam says. “What?”

“ _Uh_. I, um,” Dean says, valiantly chasing after a diversion and finding none. “H-hey, if you see anything else you like, just grab it.”

“ _Anything?_ ”

“Well – okay, not, like, a cat o’ nine tails. But if you want something, whatever. S’not like you’re gonna break the bank.”  

“Yeah, uh – okay,” Sam says. He’s started to shift down the aisle again, eyes running over the shelves, but he’s still blushing all over, his hands gone nervous and fiddly at his sides. “I’ll, um. Look. I guess.”

“You do that,” Dean says, and winks.

“Oh my God _, stop,”_ Sam says. “Hey – heh, here we go.”

“What?” Dean says, fumbling with a fleshlight. “Find something good? Vinyl catsuit? Handcuffs?”

“We already _have_ handcuffs,” Sam says. “No, there’s a whole thing of lube here. Like, a crate. Damn.”   

“Woah, okay, hang on,” Dean says, tossing the fleshlight over his shoulder. “Wait for me, wouldja?” 

His path over brings him past the lingerie again, and he’s tempted to poke through it, grab a couple of his favorites, but he just – he _can’t._ He’d told Sam he was okay with whatever, and he _meant_ it, but it’s, it’s different for him. This, especially. And it’s not like, you know, a _thing._ He doesn’t even like it that much. At all. Right? Right. Yeah.

By the time he shoulders over to Sam, the kid’s got an apothecary’s worth of bottles stacked up in his arms, all sorts of colors and sizes. Dean thinks he sees a heart-shaped one in there somewhere, and he lunges for it.

Sam dances away. “Nope – I found ‘em, I get to pick ‘em.”

“Sam – I _told_ you – ”

“And I listened. None of ‘em are cherry scented, I promise. Not even one.”

“You are such a fucking _bitch,”_ Dean says. “I meant _all_ the gross flavored ones, not just the damn cherry.”

“You shoulda said,” Sam pouts. “I didn’t know.”

“Like hell you didn’t know. You try ‘n get anywhere near me with your smelly shit and I’m locking you outta the house.”

“I’m _sure_ you will,” Sam says. “I’m gonna go find a bag. You can do whatever.”

_Whatever_ turns out to be a stroll outside to the Impala. Dean leans against her and squints into the horizon, tries to make out Hartford through the stifling, permanent fog draped over it, leeching the color out of the buildings, blocking out the sun. It is silent – no cars, no distant city chatter, just the rise and fall of his breath, the smell of old gasoline.

He is – . Afraid.  

He hears the door open and close behind him, heavy footsteps drawing near.

“Hey,” he says, staring out at the bleak cityscape. “I was thinking – maybe we oughta go see how Hartford’s doing.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam says. “But dude, they might not – . You know.”

“Let us in? I ain’t lookin’ for a guided tour of the place, Pocahontas. Just wanna see if they’ve noticed any change.”   

“No, I mean – they might not _be_ there anymore.”

“Fuck,” Dean says. “You think – all this time – ?”

“Maybe – Dean, I don’t know. We can’t, until we go check it out. But we did what we could, okay?”

“ _Did_ we?” Dean asks. “’Cuz I remember sitting around a house for, like, a month.”

“Dean,” Sam sighs, with all the tired patience of the perpetually harangued. “We were under time constraints. We couldn’tve done it any sooner.”

“Still doesn’t mean we couldn’ta fought,” Dean mutters, and Sam frowns at him.

“Let’s just – let’s go and see, okay? C’mon, man. If we can help, we’ll help. If we can’t, then – . It’s okay.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean says, tired already, sure of the worst. “Let’s go and see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ssssOOOO here's the deal!!! my courses are k i l l i n g me this semester, and I don't know how often ill be able to update. i will try to do it as often as i can!! i would really like to cONCLUDE THIS SHITFEST ghghgkghg
> 
> also the title of this thing is in flux. if you have any suggestions hmu


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow. okay. here we are i guess hi
> 
> uhhhh. UHHHHHHHH
> 
> it's been like. three years since i updated this gd story so here's A FUN RECAP for y'all!!!:  
> \--> DEan wakes up from a P Cool Dreamworld that Cas stuck him in to find out that the leviathan have busted out and overrun a whole lot of the world. w castiel's help they open up a portal back to purgatory and shove them back in there, but cas gets thrown back also!! and then theres brothers having sex. u know. the usual. 
> 
> ummm there's other stuff but honestly whatever im tired. heres an update. goodnight

It might be Dean's imagination but the city interior seems quieter than it'd been since their visit a week or so ago, the air oily and still, the sidewalk flooded with stagnant, brackish puddles. The streets are clogged with rubble and the bodies of rusted-out cars, and maneuvering the Impala through the mess is no easy task, but he pushes on in silence, Sam's hand on his thigh.

The barrier looks much the same as it did the last time, maybe a little more broken down, a little less stable. There’s no evidence that the leviathan were ever there, but also no evidence of human habitation, and the sick, despairing feeling in Dean’s gut intensifies.

“Maybe they – ” Sam says.

Dean doesn’t want to hear it. “C’mon,” he grunts, and swings out of the car.

Still, nothing – no movement, no gun-barrel flash. The city stays silent behind the wall.

“We should – let’s grab some supplies,” says Sam. “Just in case, you know. Plus – wouldn’t hurt to come bearing gifts.”

They take their time filling up a duffle bag with spare medical supplies, bandages and antibiotics and a handful of sleeping pills, why the hell not. They debate bringing bullets, too, and decide in the end that they’d rather not facilitate any murder, if they can help it.

There’s not much else of use in the car, particularly food-wise. He wishes they had something better to offer – fresh fruit, dry beans or rice, good old-fashioned beef jerky – but they don’t store a lot of food in the car at the best of times, and now that they’ve got a home base they’ve been especially lenient. Dean stuffs his pockets with old Power Bars from their emergency stash and hopes they’ll be enough, dry and stale as they are. 

They approach the blockade loaded up with supplies, get all the way up to the base of the rubble.

“C’mon then, I guess,” Dean says, and mounts it, Sam heavy-footed and uncoordinated at his side. It’s hardly his fault – the wall’s more or less kept together with luck and the creative application of barbed wire, so it’s not the friendliest of climbs. It’s disintegrating as they go and doing its damndest to take them with it.

Midway up and invisible from the street they find a pair of rounded out nests, almost like small, staggered parapets, where the cityfolk must’ve sat and kept watch. The thick woolen blankets lining the bottoms are strung with spider webbing and dead flies, stiff where they’ve been rained on and left to dry.

“You think the leviathan – ?” Sam says.

Dean flips over a blanket, inspects the sides of the concrete foxhole. “No blood,” he points out. “No black goo, either.”

“That we can see,” Sam says.

Dean drops the musty wool. “Yeah. That we can see.”

They continue upwards, stumbling and sliding on the loose rock. At the top there’s a twisted line of barbed wire and they peer through it together, eyeballing the distant, misty street. There’s an overturned Cadillac and a river of broken glass and not much else. The street-level windows that aren’t clogged with trash and fallen brick are boarded up tight.

“Anything?” Dean says, and Sam shakes his head.

“No. It’s quiet.”

They swing over the wire and take the slope down at a run, ending up near the upended front wheels of the Cadillac. It’s an ’82 Cimmaron, so Dean can’t drudge up much sympathy for it. The street’s near impassable for a car anyway, clogged with soggy newspapers and gummy cardboard and empty plastic bottles, the odd lost shoe gone grey and limp, all of it lodged sticky and sulfurous in dredged-up mud. Alongside the litter are the leftovers of a crowd taking off in a hurry, abandoned umbrellas and purses moulding where they’d fallen, an open suitcase spilling white linens over the silt, and Sam and Dean are forced to pick over these carefully as they make their way down the street. Above all there is the stink of decay, cloying and sharp, and while there are no bodies in plain view there are almost assuredly some laid out inside the blocked-off buildings themselves, rotting and bloating in solitude. It’s a city of potential ghosts.  

Everything is damp and grey and still, and it all looks the same, every corner supermarket, every crumbling gas station. Several times they turn down a side street only to encounter more wall blocking their path, and so in this way they are shepherded down a fairly linear root to the heart of the blockade, a tall, flat-faced hotel building with soot-streaked windows. It’s the only place they’ve seen so far without its lowest levels bricked and boarded. The pavement up to the entrance is relatively clear.

“Main camp?” Dean says, squinting up at it. There’s a long line of laundry roped from a third-floor window to a nearby street-post, heavy with shirts and jeans and a few child-sized dresses. Underneath the awning to the front door, there’s a huge, ashy firepit, circled with a motley collection of rusty aluminum lawn chairs.

“Looks like,” Sam says. “Think anyone’s still here?”

“One way to find out,” Dean says.

He isn’t hopeful.

 

The winged, flaking front doors open easily enough and they pass through without threat. The main lobby is cavernous and grand, even in its dilapidated state. It reminds Dean of the shots of downed luxury ships he’s seen in documentaries, muted and surreal in the low light, preserved forever in a state of drunken, dreamlike timelessness.

“Hello? Anyone home?” Dean calls, and the hall absorbs it silently, smothers his voice in cold, cut stone. He shivers. The place feels like a tomb.

“Jesus,” Sam says. “What _happened?”_

“They must’ve left,” Dean says, and doesn’t half believe it himself – but he has to cling to his hope, he has to imagine there’s anything of humanity left to save –    

“Last time we were here, they were entrenched,” Sam says. “They were defending this place. It doesn’t make sense.”

“No,” Dean says. “It doesn’t.”

Sam looks at him for a long, grim moment. There’s nothing to say that they haven’t said before, no number of pretty consolations that could alleviate the weight of their loss. It is not new but it is always devastating.

 “You still wanna look around?” Sam says.

Dean sucks in the stagnant air, squares his shoulders, moves on. “Might as well,” he says. “If there’s any bodies, we can at least put ‘em to rest.”

They mount the wide, bronze-railed stairs side-by-side, arms and shoulders brushing. There’s a series of generic pastoral paintings hung along the wall and Sam brushes his fingers across the cracked frames as they pass like he’s looking for something to hold on to.

_Not your damn fault,_ Dean wants to tell him. It wouldn’t make a difference.

“Huh,” Sam says, pausing. “Check it out.”

Dean squints over his shoulder. The stair Sam’s pointing at looks pretty much exactly like every other stair in the set.

“Uh. That’s real neat, Sammy. What’m I supposed to be looking at, exactly?”   

Sam rolls his eyes and crouches down, tapping at the stone. “Here, asshole.”

Dean leans in, and _there –_ a tiny geometrical pattern’s cut into the lip of the stair, nearly invisible to the eye. “A glyph?” he says.

“That’s spellwork,” Sam says. “It’s voudoun, I think – protection against dark magic. If we searched around, I bet we’d find a whole bunch of these spread out in a net.”

 “Huh. Wonder who did it. That shit keep out a leviathan?”

“I dunno,” Sam says, straightening up. “I doubt it’d keep out a leviathan, though.”

They split up at the top of the stairs, Sam tackling one side of the hallway, Dean the other, shuffling down room by room. Like the lobby, they’re spacious inside, richly furnished underneath the grime and heavy living, the kind of place the Winchesters never really got to stay in. They’ve still got the same dead, evacuated feeling as the rest of the hotel, though, beds rumpled and unmade, toothbrushes calcified on sink counters, spoiled food in the small refrigerators, lives interrupted and hurried away. There are no bodies – yet – but there are children’s toys and pacifiers, tiny baby sneakers with velcro fastenings, car seats and baby swings and high chairs knocked over on their sides. He should be used to it by now, all this human flotsam, but it’s another one of those things he’ll never quite grow to accept.

The windows allow a little light to pass but for the most part the whole place is cast in a murky paludal gloom, and he catches his toes on chair legs and fallen architecture until his eyes adjust to the dark. A couple times he tries to flick on a light switch and, after the cozy yellow-hued comfort of their house, is surprised when it never works. The taps, when turned on, leak an anemic, rusty brown fluid that smells suspiciously fishy, or, in most cases, simply do not work at all.  

His corridor’s shaped like a T, the main hallway branching off into two at the end, and as soon as he finishes off the first he turns to tackle the right-hand corridor. He’s lulled by the absence of corpses and he’s got half his mind focused on Sammy so when someone tugs the machete out of his belt and settles the edge of a knife across his throat he’s taken totally by surprise.

“Move and you’re dead,” the owner of the knife says, her breath warm against his neck.

“Hey, okay, easy,” Dean says. “Let’s not – ”

He breaks her hold on the knife and turns fluidly, ramming her up against the nearest wall with his elbow. He might be an idiot but he’s John Winchester’s idiot, goddammit, and no civilian’s gonna get the jump on _him_.

“Let’s try this again,” he says.

She glares up at him. She’s tall – not as tall as he is, but impressively close – and well-muscled, broad and solid like a gymnast. Her face is oddly familiar, broad-bridged nose and jutting, fierce chin, big dark eyes – 

“ _Hey!”_ he says. “You’re that lady! From the blockade!”

“Fuck you,” she spits, struggling. She’s strong – not enough to overwhelm him straight off, but enough to pose a problem, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to hold her for too long.

“Would you – _c’mon,_ I’m not gonna hurt you, _shit._ I’m here to help – remember me? Yeah? We were in the black Impala – you warned us about the route out – ”

She slows to a stop, still tense in his arms but no longer attempting to jab him in the kidneys. “You – you’re that guy,” she says. “You’re _alive.”_

He figures she’s no longer jonesing to stab him, so he looses her and backs off a little, hands palm-up in the air. “That’s me,” he says, with his shiniest, panty-droppingest smile. “Friendly alive guy. Not gonna hurt you.”

“ _How,”_ she says, unimpressed. Her eyes bore into him, demanding, hungry coals. “You took on that duppy and you walked away. You _killed_ it. How?”

“Uh. Magic sword?” he offers. “I don’t know how the thing works, but it’s – special, I guess, it takes ‘em down if you can get close enough – .”   

Her face starts to crumple and she visibly chokes back her sorrow, forces herself to close off again. “It was specific, then,” she says. “That weapon. Not something _you_ did, but – . _It_ killed them.” 

“Uh, yeah, I think so,” he says. He’s a little surprised that she’s taking him at face value, but these days, who fucking knows anymore. “Look – ”

“Could someone make another one? Could you do it again?” 

“ _Je_ sus _,_ I got no idea, I didn’t make the damn thing,” he says, startled at her intensity. “And, besides, you wouldn’t need it anyway – ”  

“What’s that supposed to mean,” she says. “What are you – ?”

Someone comes shuffling clumsily up behind them, kicking trash in their wake, and both Dean and his captive jump and turn, still eyeing each other best they can while getting a bead on the large, dusty figure stumbling around the corner. It’s Sam, Dean realizes, his hands clasped behind his head and a sheepish, anemic grin on his face, and next to him, pearl-handled revolver steady in her hand, a round, knobby-wristed old woman in a faded housedress, her face brown and shiny like old, worn leather.

“Hey,” Sam says.

“ _Dude,”_ says Dean. “Seriously?”

“You okay?” the younger woman says, her voice gone back to hostile. “He hurt you?”

The old lady shakes her head no. She looks bemused. “I’m fine, sweetheart,” she says, in a surprisingly strong, deep voice. “He was down by the room, though.”

“I don’t know what game you think you’re playing,” the other woman hisses, “but we won’t fu – _screw_ around with scavengers. I’m not taking that chance.”  

“We aren’t – we _aren’t_ – !” Dean says, too panicked to keep himself from yelling. If Sam lives through all this bullshit just to get shot in the face by someone’s fucking grandmother, he’s gonna throw an honest-to-God shitfit. “We don’t want your stuff, or whatever, _listen –_ ”

“We were in the area and we wanted to see if anyone was willing to trade,” Sam cuts in. “We got to the wall and when no one was there, we went in to make sure everyone was okay. That’s it. I promise.”

“We can help,” Dean says. “Let us. Please.”

“One move,” the first woman says finally. “One wrong move, and – .”

“Yeah – yeah, of course,” Sam says. “We understand. Thank you. I –. I’m Sam, and that’s Dean.” 

“Naomi,” she says, after a pause. “And that’s – . My Mom.”  

“Hyacinth,” Naomi’s mother corrects, lowering the revolver. “Call me Hyacinth.”

“It’s good to meet you,” Sam says. “Really. It was so quiet when we got here, we thought – .”

“Yeah, well, you weren’t wrong,” Naomi says. “If you’re looking to trade, you’re gonna be disappointed. We don’t have much.”

“How come?” Dean says. “What _happened_ here? You were fine a week ago, and now this place is frickin’ Silent Hill.”

Hyacinth sighs. “That’s a story, boys,” she says. “Why don’t we go sit down, and we can talk things over? Maybe have some lunch?”

“ _Mom –_ ” Naomi begins to say.

“I’m sure they’re hungry. You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

“Uh,” Dean says. He is, actually, a little.

“See? Come on, we’ll get a soup going.”

Hyacinth walks with a pronounced limp but she’s just as fast as her daughter, and the two of them head down the hall with the confidence of familiarity. Sam and Dean trail behind them, bickering quietly. 

“Food’s nice, but I woulda ‘preciated a friendlier welcome,” Dean mutters. “You almost got murdered by Mother Teresa over there.”

“Okay, one, she’s not _nearly_ that old,” Sam says. “Two, what was I supposed to do? Suplex her?” 

“Maybe? She could take it. She looks tough.”

“Oh my God, Dean, you can’t _– ”_

“You’re the first people to come through here in a while,” Hyacinth says in front of them, and they both clam up. “The East Coast is mostly cleaned out.”

“Um. Why’s that?”

Naomi squints over her shoulder at them, her face skeptical. “What, you haven’t seen? There’s duppies all over the damn place. Ain’t safe to be up here.”

Dean trips over an upturned vase, his pulse skyrocketing. “You mean, you’ve seen – they’ve been around? _Here?_ In the city, or – ?”

He thought they’d gotten rid of them – _all_ of them – Cas had been _sure,_ he’d said it’d been it, the portal had _worked –_ how are they supposed to deal with _this,_ now that they’re short one angel _and_ their fucking demon cohort? It’s going to be impossible – they aren’t witches or miracle-workers or even heroes –

Sam puts a huge hand at the small of his back, anchoring him. “Naomi, when was this? Have you seen the – _duppies_ within the last week or so?”

“Well – no,” she says, and Dean takes a huge, shuddering breath, tries not to lean into his brother too obviously. “But we haven’t really – we haven’t gone out of the hotel since everyone else left. For all we know – .”

It’s a relief to hear that their news is outdated, but at the same time – “They _left?”_ he says. “Even though the roads were swamped? Why – ?”

“Plenty of reasons,” she snaps. “You think there wasn’t more coming? You think this city isn’t drying up where it stands – ”

“We’re here,” Hyacinth says, stopping in front of a door. There’s nothing about her that suggests a threat but it’s clear that she’s unimpressed. Naomi, glowering, tosses her long braids behind her shoulder and looks away.

“Slow,” Hyacinth says, and opens the door.

The room is a double, cluttered and ill-lit, windows smothered by thick, ugly curtains. Once it was probably a very nice hotel room, suitable for mid-range businessmen and upper middle class families on holiday, but now the space is heavy with the smell of sick, swampy bodies, breath from a bilious, decaying throat, the feverish warmth of the chronically ill. The bed furthest from the door is occupied by an unmoving human-shaped lump. On its edge sit two little boys, and as soon as the door’s all the way open the larger kid is on his feet, brandishing a kitchen knife that’s huge in his bony hands. He’s so skinny and small a good wind could knock him over but he stands desperate and ferocious in front of the younger child, his knees bent and ready and his lips pulled into a determined snarl. Dean doesn’t doubt for a moment that he’d fight to the death for the people in this room, take a bullet or two and still go down swinging. 

“Lou, it’s okay,” Hyacinth says. “They’re friends.”

Lou doesn’t seem to believe her. He lowers the knife fractionally but his posture’s as anticipatory as it’d been when they’d arrived, his eyes as narrow and focused.

The smaller boy slides off the bed and lands clumsily on socked feet. “Does that mean we can quit hiding now?” he says. “My action men are downstairs.”

“Nuh-uh, stick around. We’re gonna have lunch, okay?” Naomi says, her voice fond, face as soft as Dean’s ever seen it. He hadn’t noticed it before, but she’s young – younger than he is, younger than Sam, even. It makes him ache and he’s not entirely sure why.

“Mac ‘n cheese?” the smaller boy sings.

“We’re out, remember? It’s gonna be soup – I _know,_ I’m sorry, Trev, but it’s what we got. How about you go get Helena out of hiding? Come back in, maybe, twenty minutes.”

“Mm-kay,” he says. The two boys scamper away, Lou casting wary glances over his narrow shoulders as he goes.

“Brothers?” Sam says.

Hyacinth smiles, tugging aside one of the curtains. Outside there’s a small tin windowbox strapped to the sill, except instead of flowers, it’s filled with old, charred bits of wood. “Mm-hmm. Luis is ten, and Trevor’s six. How’d you guess?”

Sam shrugs, glancing over at Dean awkwardly. “Uh. I’m one too, I guess. A brother, I mean. So.”

“That’s nice,” she says. She wrenches open the window halfway. “Naomi, hand me the tinder-box – thank you. I have sisters, but they’re in Minnesota. At least, they were, last time I heard from them.”

She gets a little fire going in the windowbox, and then she heaves a largish metal grill up from the floor and props it over the flames on its spindly little legs. Dean’d seen similar contraptions at the army surplus stores his Dad had frequented back in the day – ventilated on the top and foldable for easy storage, table-shaped so you could stick it overtop an open campfire and put meat on it to cook. They’d never owned one – sticks and rocks had been good enough cookware for the Winchester boys – but it looks like it’d be a handy thing to have if they ever get stuck out in the wilderness again.

“How many of you are here?” Sam says. “You and Naomi, and the boys, and – ?”

“Just the seven of us, I think. Yeah – seven,” Hyacinth says. She tugs a pot out from under the window and clangs it down onto her makeshift stove. “We mostly share this room and the two next door.”  

“Only seven?” Dean says. “And everyone else – they left?”

“Hmm,” Hyacinth agrees. “Was about – a hundred n’ fifty of us before? We all thought we’d weather it out here, but – well. Now it’s only us. Naomi – soup, please.”

Out of one of the dresser drawers, Naomi produces a can of chicken noodle and hands it over to her mother, who peels it open and dumps it into the pot. Dean, who was kinda looking forward to a meal made by someone’s honest-to-God grandmother, feels his heart sink a little.    

“We do all right,” she continues, cracking open a plastic water bottle and pouring in about half. “They left behind enough food for a while, and water – well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

The figure on the bed makes a sad, pained noise, and Naomi scoots over, gathering up a small, dark case as she goes.

“Hey, hey – no, don’t try to move. The boys are with Helena, they’re fine. You need something? Painkillers? Yeah, we can do that. Hang on.”

She rummages through the small kit and comes up with a steely, plastic-wrapped syringe. Dean looks away.

“That’s Luis and Trevor’s Mama, Carina,” Hyacinth explains, her eyes sad. “She’s been sick a long while, and ever since the hospital – well, you know. All we can do’s keep her comfortable.” 

They’re quiet. Behind them cellophane crinkles and tears, and the bedsheets are drawn downward.

“Mmm,” Carina says, and is still.

“Yeah, there we go,” Naomi says, and then turns back to her mother, still holding the syringe. “Mom – that’s the last of the morphine,” she says in a whisper.

Dean looks up, surprised. “Really? That’s it? This place has gotta have a clinic or something – ”

She shoots him an impressive _are-you-an-idiot_ face. “That shit was looted _forever_ ago,” she says. “We got some of it – and now we don’t.”

“Hey – we’ve got medical supplies, if you need some,” Sam offers, patting his bag. “No morphine, but there _are_ painkillers – tramadol, I think? Lortab?”

“Sleeping pills, too,” Dean adds helpfully.

Naomi chews on the inside of her cheek. “Look – we don’t got much, like I said. You could probably find some good clothes, if you look around, a whole lotta pillows and blankets, but that’s about it. Oh – we got vegetables! Fresh ones, I mean. And if you keep the seeds, you can start your own garden after.”    

At first Dean’s got no idea why she’s listing her resources like that, and then he realizes with a start – she thinks she has to pay them. They aren’t overflowing with medical supplies, by any means, but neither of them are too banged up at the moment and there’s a woman dying feet away from them; of course they’re going to share, even if they’ll probably need the stuff in the future.

Sam’s already two steps ahead of him. “You tell me about the spellwork you got set up around here and we’ve got a deal,” he says.   

“Uh,” Naomi says, dropping the syringe into the wastebasket. “Seriously?”

“Yup,” Sam says. “Show us what you know, and you can have whatever you want.”

“Well, I – okay,” she says, with the air of someone who’s bamboozled their way into an excellent bargain. “Sure. If that’s what you want.”

“You should know,” Hyacinth says, “we don’t know much about it – it’s all Fredeline’s, and she left with the rest.”

Sam’s face falls comically. “Oh.”

“ _But,”_ she says, lifting one withered, spotty finger. “She _did_ leave behind some of her notes, if you’re determined. I've never looked at them too closely – it’s all nonsense to me – but if you’d like to try – ”

“I’d _love_ to,” Sam gushes. “Please – have you got them with you? Can I see?”

“Of course,” she says, laughing. “Come on – they’re still in her room where she left them. Naomi – watch the pot.”   

The two of them bustle out, chatting about whatever the hell nerdy magic stuff Sam’s found an interest in this time. Just what they needed – more shit for the library. Awesome.

Naomi stands and goes over to the simmering pot. “He believe in that stuff? For real?” she says, her tone mocking.

Dean shrugs. “It’s always worked for us. ‘Sides, the stuff we’ve seen – tends to dispend your belief a little, you know?”

“I guess,” she says. She stirs at the soup some.  

“How come you stayed?” he asks. The question’s been itching at him since he’d first learned everyone else’d gone for greener pastures – why her? Why here? 

“That’s _personal,”_ she snaps, and then blushes, rubs across her mouth with her palm. “I – . Hell, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so – . All of this, and – you forget, you know?”

He sees himself in her, suddenly – not so much who he is now, but the person he could have been, his theoretical 2014 self Zachariah’d introduced him to way back when the angels’ Apocalypse was a go. She’s got that same distant, stony façade, the mark of a person who’s used to choosing survival over companionship, the greater good over the individual. She’s one of the very few other humans he’s met since Cas’ disastrous series of choices but he imagines it isn’t a rare outlook, not any longer, not with everyone so scattered and fragmented and determined to protect their families. It’s the end of the world in everything but name and it only makes sense to zip yourself up tight, keep outsiders away whenever you can.          

“Come with us,” Dean says on impulse. “Look – we got running water, food, medical stuff, you name it. There’s enough space for everyone.”

“ _All_ of us? We – no, we couldn’t,” she says, starting back from the grill.

“You _know_ you can’t stay here. You said it yourself. We can’t fix Carina,” he says quietly. “But we can make it – easier. For all of you.”

She watches him quietly, brow furrowed. _Don’t be stubborn,_ he thinks. _Take the goddamn offer._

“Can we risk moving?” she says finally. “Are the roads clear?”

“Uh. There ain’t a lotta traffic, if that’s what you mean.”

“The _duppies,”_ she says, like she’s talking to a small, dull child. 

“Oh!” he says. “Hell, I forgot – fuckin’ things are gone.”

“Gone. Like – _gone?_ _Completely_? So when you said earlier they weren’t a problem, you meant – . That can’t be true. You can’t be _serious.”_

“Swear to – uh, swear on my life,” he says. “Marched ‘em back to the pit they came from. Shouldn’t bother anyone again.”

“ _God – ”_ she says, and stops herself reflexively, a hand at her throat. “All of them are – . We should’ve – we should’ve _known_ – ”

“Woah, it’s not – it isn’t your fault,” he says

 “Damn fucking _right_ it’s not our fucking fault,” she says, eyes ablaze. He’s pretty sure her anger isn’t directed at him, but he flinches back all the same. “They took the fucking radio – couldn’t even leave us a damn _radio,_ and we thought _– .”_

“They left you in the dark,” Dean says, and she nods, lips pursed.

“It’s only been a week, but – . I got friends who left for the Midwest, God help ‘em, and I don’t know if they’re okay – and my aunties, too, and my cousins, and I – .” She stops to blink back tears. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“Hey – no, it’s okay, I – . I’ll do whatever I can to help, okay? I promise,” he says. “Stick with me, and I’ll – Hell, once we get my friend back, we can go _visit_ ‘em – ” 

“Okay,” she says, laughing and snuffling and pretending she isn’t on the verge of tears. “Okay. Thank you. I’ll have to talk to my Mom, but – ”

The door bursts open behind them, and they both jump. It’s the two boys, disheveled and winded, and dragged along behind them a petite, exasperated young woman clutching a baby to her small chest. She has caramel-colored hair down nearly to her waist and her short, square nails are painted dark green.    

“Nao-miiii, I’m hungry,” the smaller boy – Trevor? – says. He has a pair of plastic action figures in his fat little fists.

Naomi takes a deep breath. “Okay, baby,” she says. “Few more minutes.”

“But I’m hungry _now._ Were you crying? How come?”

“ _Trev,”_ Luis scolds. He makes as if to sit at the table, but his eyes light on Dean and he halts mid-step.  

“Hey, man,” Dean says. He tries to look as unthreatening as he can, slouching in his chair and smiling disarmingly. “Lou, right? You wanna introduce me to your friend?” 

“That’s Helena,” Trevor pipes up. “An’, that’s Valerie. She’s a baby.”

“Cool,” says Dean. “Nice to meet you, Helena and Valerie.”

“Hello,” Helena says. “Luis, could you please get the bowls?” Her voice is fluty and high and it sounds like it spends more time speaking Spanish than English, if Dean’s any judge of accents.    

Luis looks skeptical, eyes darting between Dean and his brother.

“I’ll watch Trev,” Naomi says, hoisting the soup pot off the grill. “It’ll be okay, I promise. Go help.”

Luis, outnumbered and outmatched, backs out of the room with one last, threatening glance at Dean. He isn’t going to be easy to win over.

Trevor, though, he’s already bound and determined that Dean’s going to be his next bestest friend. He clamors into the chair next to him and holds out his action figures under his nose.

“Woah, cool,” Dean says. “Who you got there, the Hulk? And – who’s the other guy?”

“ _Hawkeye,”_ Trevor says, sounding scandalized. “He’s the _coolest._ He has a bow n’arrows and he _blows stuff up.”_

“Wow. That does sound pretty cool.”  

“ _It is.”_

Luis comes stomping back in, pile of bowls stacked precariously in his small arms. Following him is Sam, holding a battered crate, and Hyacinth, who looks downright tickled pink.  

“Sam,” Dean says, standing, and his brother comes over, beaming like an idiot.

“This lady – Fredeline – she’s real smart, Dean, you wouldn’t _believe_ it. This stuff’s a treasure trove – ”

“ _Sam,”_ Dean says again. He grabs his brother’s huge forearm and starts to guide him toward the door. “Let’s go – can we talk outside?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Did something happen? Don’t worry, Hyacinth – we’ll be right back – ”

The door closes behind them and they stand together close in the hall, their foreheads nearly touching. Sam is huge-eyed and concerned and Dean really just wants to get the two of them out of there, bundle his stupid goddamn little brother up in his bed and never let him go –

“No – no, s’fine,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s just – listen, man, I was thinking, and we can’t leave ‘em here. They’re gonna die on their own. They’re running out of food and maybe there’s no leviathan around – ”    

“No, you’re right,” Sam says.

“ – but sooner or later some real scavengers’ll come a-knocking – wait, what?”

“You’re right,” Sam repeats. “I was thinking it too – they can’t stay here. But – . If you think I’m gonna let you drop ‘em off somewhere else and leave them _there_ instead,” he says, suddenly fierce, “I won’t goddamn hear it – ”

“Jesus, no,” Dean says. Relief rushes through him. “Of course they’d stay with us, you dumbass. We got, like, twenty fucking bedrooms.”

“Okay – okay, good, I – . Usually it’s me picking up strays, you know? So I kinda figured you wouldn’t be so – . Up for it.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I ain’t as heartless as you think, Sammy. Damn.”

“I know,” Sam says, and his gaze is too sincere, too gentle, and Dean coughs and looks away.

“Right. Okay. Let’s break the news to the troops, huh? C’mon.”

“Hey,” Sam says. “Can I – ?”

“Can you _what,_ bitch – _umph –_ .”

Sam’s lips are on his, soft and tender, one hand stroking warm along Dean’s jaw and the other sliding down his waist to his hip. This is not the time or place but Dean’s eyes flutter shut and he leans into his brother, warm and solid and familiar –

 Someone coughs behind them and he tries to spring away, but Sam’s got enough of a death grip on his waist that he’s only really able to jolt awkwardly upwards before they snap back together again. Oh fucking well, he figures, after the initial surprise. If they’re all gonna live in the same house together, they damn well better be okay with his and Sam’s Big Gay Love Affair. He turns toward the intruder, ready to give them his best, poutiest _you got a problem with it?._

It’s Helena. She looks more bemused than anything else, her strong brows arched up high, so Dean holds his tongue. For now.

“Hyacinth says to say dinner’s ready,” she says. “But – whenever you’re ready.”

“Now!” Sam says, bright pink. “We’re ready now!”

They follow her into the room and sit back at the table, where there are steaming bowls of soup for each person. It smells like – well, it smells like canned chicken soup, but Dean’s hungry, and not particularly picky, so he reaches for his spoon and gets ready to dig in.  

“Grace first,” Hyacinth says, slapping his hand away.

The Hartford inhabitants join hands around the table and Dean and Sam wearily follow suit. No harm in playing along.

But – he’ll have to tell these people about the whole Cas thing, won’t he? Eventually? Christ, how’s he supposed to figure _that_ out?

“Lord, we are blessed today with this bountiful table and our bountiful company – ”

And what about the people who are still living in fear of God’s wrath? In comparison Naomi and her friends are doing _well,_ probably, he can only _imagine_ how the rest of the world’s doing during all this bullshit. He and Sam are lucky as hell to have what they do, and he has to, he has to – he’s never doing _enough,_ for fuck’s sake, he tries and he tries but he’s never _enough –_  

“ – Thank you for your generosity as we pray for continued strength and patience in these hard times – ”

Jesus Christ, they need Cas.

“ – Bless and keep us. Amen.”

_Amen,_ the table echoes, and they dig in. The soup continues to be canned, and therefore unremarkable.

“Hyacinth,” Sam says, setting down his spoon. “Actually – everyone. This is sorta important.”  

“Way to sell it, dude,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “Listen up, everyone – Sam and I got a house ‘bout three hours downstream, and if you wanna join us you’re welcome. It’s big and empty and, like I told Naomi, it’s got food, water, radio access, the works. So. It’s up to you. You wanna come live with us, we’ll put you up, no cost.”

“Why,” Helena says, bouncing Valerie on her lap.

“’Cuz we’re stupid friggin’ bleeding hearts, that’s why,” he says. “There is no _why,_ we just – . You can, I dunno, cook for us or whatever, if you feel you need to pay us, but I don’t give a – uh. I don’t care. I don’t wanna leave you here, is all.”

“Please,” Sam says. “It’s safe – out of the city, away from scavengers and stuff. It’s warded against everything.”

“It’d be comfortable,” Naomi adds, with a meaningful nod towards Carina. “For all of us. I think – I’m in favor of moving. You don’t wanna come, you don’t have to, but – . I think it’d be good.”

There is a short pause. Helena scrunches up her nose.

“Yeah, okay. I don’t know why, but I trust you,” she says. “’Sides, anything would be better than here.”     

“Is Mama going? If Mama’s going, I’m going,” Trevor says.

“She’s going,” Naomi says.

“Okay, then. Me too.”

“I guess I’ll have to go, too,” Hyacinth says, smiling.

“Huh,” Sam says. “I guess – I guess that’s it, then.”

“Guess so,” she says.

It’s going to be a crowded drive back.


End file.
